


The Tethras Club: A Study

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five strangers with nothing in common, except each other – and Hawke, and a dragon. Part of the Reverse Big Bang 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: The Prince

_“In the face of danger, sometimes the bravest thing is to stand back and trust that the Maker will see justice done.”_

The last Prince of Starkhaven has fought most of his natural life to be seen as anything but his birthright. The raucous third son who had strayed from the footsteps in front of him, determined to be anyone other than a spare. He had ended up in the Chantry, earnest and free -

\- and then the unthinkable had happened, and he was lost.

Hawke had found him struggling with pride, jostling with the revenge he so desperately craved and the knowledge that the Maker seldom forgave such selfish wants. He had wondered then if he would find peace in the execution of the perpetrators, had desired it and been disgusted by it all in the same breath. And he had doubted, often, his choices – to leave or to stay, to fight or to pray. It had been the first step on a path of confusion, often hindered more than aided by Hawke's mere presence.

So he had fought – hands quick on the draw, arrows flying wherever he wanted them to, fists forcing their way through the faces of anyone who dared get too close to the archer. Being with Hawke had its drawbacks, but the unwanted attention of 'bad' people was distraction enough for Sebastian. Every day was something new, another person desperate for their help, another faction eager to lure them onto their side. Of course, Hawke's affiliations were hard to win over, but a cry for help was seldom ignored -  a fact that pleases the prince.

After all, his voice had once been that cry for help.

 

He had been royalty – still was, should he decide to return home. They would be glad of his coming, he knows this much. The last son of Starkhaven's great line. He would be given a truly royal welcome. But a princely life... well, had he not walked away from that once already?  
It was a decision for another time. There was more to do here, always more to work against. The rebellion that Anders seemed to be spearheading needed help, and though Sebastian did not agree on every point, there were some things he would gladly help with. He could talk to people, after all. He had connections.

And he was gifted at that – or, at least, the Revered Mother seemed to think so. In what little free time he had, he would often walk the courtyard of the Chantry in discourse with Elthina. She would challenge him with logic puzzles hidden in scripture, moral mazes to be navigated carefully, and seemed pleased with his conclusions. A bright lad, she had said on the day he had been dragged to the Chantry for the first time. She seemed to hold to that still.

He was not so sure, these days. Since their encounter with the demon, his doubts had grown ever more convoluted, and he had often wondered aloud if his choices were not sending him further and further from the arms of the Maker – though the unspoken question of whether or not this _mattered_ was one that Varric easily picked up on.

“Chantry boy,” he had said, in that all-knowing tone that everyone had grown accustomed to, “way I see it, the path you're on is the right path, no matter what it is. You know why? Because _you_ picked it, which makes it free will. Can't regret everything you do, you know? And your Maker will understand that better than you.”

Of course, it was hardly the soundest logic in the world, but to Sebastian it was enough for now. If the Maker wanted him on a different path, he had faith He would make it clear. He was sure of that much, at least.

Well, almost sure.


	2. II: The Queen

_"Family's not just the people you're related to by blood. There are other people who care about you."_  
  
Isabela knows better than most that image really is everything. After all, even her name is nothing but an illusion – not that she would ever admit as much. But a mask is crucial when you live a life like this, and all you can do is wear the best one you have.

The Queen of the Eastern Seas barely knows in which direction the docks are these days, and she considers this over a large drink after having tired Merrill out with more stories of the ocean life. Of course, she had avoided the docks particularly well for a number of years, what with the Quanri in seemingly-permanent residence, but even now she has to think for a long moment before heading in the right direction. It was galling, in truth. She could easily afford a ship, despite all that business with the sodding Kossith, and yet... and yet she remains. _And isn't that a bloody wonder,_ she thinks. For some reason, being a companion of Hawke seems like a much better gig than being a captain again. She must be mad, she realises. Mad as that daft mage was becoming. _Poor Anders._

 

It was not hard to realise why – Hawke was a liberator, in so many ways. She could truly be herself here. Not the widow, not the criminal, but Isabela – the woman she had chosen to become. So many people had tried to put her into boxes.

_Even myself, in truth._

Still, she does have to wonder who she is becoming now. Landlocked as she was before, it was easy to see that she needed Hawke's help, but now the world was her oyster. She could go back to Antiva, sail through the Rialto Bay to fight fat pricks in Llomerryn and then head off in search of good trade. She could go to Amaranthine and sleep with lonely Grey Wardens, get drunk in Val Chevin, steal more Nevarran treasures, or even risk her neck in the Sundered Seas...

… she _could_ do any of those things, but she remained. And it did not sit well with her.

_Ridiculous._

 

Varric had probably put it best. Unfinished business was a burden. Her ridiculous sense of honour – well, _that_ was Hawke's fault too – kept her here, tied her to people. It was crazy, but... she had chosen it. And that made it all okay, in the end, because it had been _her_ doing, her choice to play the big sister to Merrill, her choice to constantly tease Sebastian, her choice to let off a little steam with Fenris. Everything she had done had been _her_ choice. And how she showed that off was her choice too. Her image was everything, but... sometimes her friends were everything too.

She wonders what Naishe would make of it all. And then, downing her drink and calling for another, she decides she does not care.


	3. III: The Madman

_“Where I come from, we would call that insanity.”_  
  
He could be crazy, for all he knows.

He sits and stares at the marks on his arms, sometimes, his thoughts turning to Bartrand and the madness that had set in with the brief exposure to the lyrium idol. That he ever chose this life astounds him. All he can remember with any clarity is the pain, the lancing pain that had seared across his skin and enveloped him completely. Lyrium sends people mad. They had seen it time and again, and no doubt they would see it again in the future – and yet here he stood, alive and seemingly with all of his senses, with the accursed stuff coursing through his body like a trophy.

 

In truth, he _was_ the trophy, forged by a cruel man who had desired nothing more than to showcase his powers – and Hawke had won him in the end. He had traded slavery for a different cage, had he not? He knew it was one that he was free to walk away from at any point, but... he found himself honour-bound to see this chaos through to the bitter end. Oh, and it would be bitter – anyone could see that this city of chains would not give up hounding Hawke, bringing more and more problems every day. It would be a long war, a difficult one, with much bloodshed and far too many lives lost.

Fenris does not like to dwell on that particular thought.

 

Instead he follows Hawke when he can, and follows others when he cannot. Isabela comes to him some nights, a bottle of wine in one hand and a wry smile on her lips, and sometimes they talk and read and laugh and wrestle, and other nights it is enough to exist together in silence. Other nights Varric deals him a hand as they all play Wicked Grace and drink until the cards no longer matter. He supposes, in a way, they are all friends – bound together by a single person, but clinging to each other too. He likes these times. Good nights to be alive for.

He has his share of bad ones, too, of course – a haunted man seldom escapes his demons in the dark. Danarius, though dead at his own hands, comes to him in the night and shows him the blurry and bloody history he now wishes he could forget. His mother, a faceless phantom dressed in rags and sadness, leads his sister away from him in fear. His father, always absent. His master, never lenient in his pursuit. They run fast and far, and Fenris tires too quickly. In the end the faces merge into one howling mess and he awakens dripping in sweat.

He could be crazy.

 

He wishes his memories would clear up, but in the same breath he fears what they might show him – what his life had been like before. Had he been loved? He cannot remember. He cannot even remember the face of the woman he was supposed to call his mother. He only just remembers that there was a 'before' – before the pain, before Danarius, before his escape. He wonders if that is the lyrium's fault too – oh, it would be so easy to blame it for everything. But the truth was he had fought for the honour. He knew that much, deep in his soul. He had wanted it.

Did that make him crazy? Perhaps. But now he was prepared to atone, in whatever ways he could – the little things, helping those who needed it. It would never be enough, not to erase the slate of his sins, but it was a start. And after all, only a sane person would ever think that.


	4. IV: The Criminal

_“How else would you judge me? What else am I a shining example of?”_  
  
The manifesto sits heavy in his hands. Words did not work - words never worked on people like them. But they were a good way to get information, and information was power. Anders knows better than anyone that information was a dangerous thing to be armed with, and he wants to arm them all. High time that someone did.

_Willing or not._

Justice, _please_.

_You know it is correct._

Oh, Justice. His poor friend. What had he become, because of Anders? Their binding had been a mistake, he is all too aware of that fact now, but... he considers his arsenal, greatly improved thanks to the spirit, and wonders if it would all be worth it.

He chuckles weakly. _Words_. Perhaps it would be enough, but...

… well, there was a back-up plan.

 

He had all but begged Varric to help him start the manifesto. After all, he was a storyteller – words were his toys, shaped and delivered in the very way that he chose for them to be. Who better to help spread the word? The dwarf had been alarmed by his request, sitting him down and speaking gently to him. _No point,_ he had promised. _This is not a message I can deliver the way you want it delivered. I'm not a victim of the system like you. Write from the heart, or whatever it is that you two have in there._ And in the end he had taken up ink himself and written long discourse on Karl and Ella and that desperate mage in Ferelden who had just wanted to love a Chantry girl – _Maker, what was his name again? Jedan? Jory? Jowly?_ – and every other mage who had suffered at the hands of the tyrannical zealous oppressors. And two sleepless nights later, a stray cat curled up at his feet, he knew he had something to work with. Something to show them all.

Getting it out there... well, that was something Varric _could_ help with. And Hawke would always lend a hand, fame being a sudden advantage. He wonders if Sebastian would smuggle copies into the Chantry... perhaps too much to ask of the preacher. Still, he would ask. He had nothing to lose now.

 

But things had not always been this way. Once revered by the greatest Grey Warden he had ever known, he had been proud to stand tall with them all. All that changed the day that the Commander went missing. Rolan had appeared not long after, the snake in the grass that had been allowed to wander more freely than Anders himself – a proven, loyal Warden! - and he was condemned from within.

They had taken his cat, however. Justice had watched them strip him of everything – dignity, trust, his humour – but it had been this final straw that caused him to act. Coming to him in the night, it had been a tense affair – as if the very air around them knew what they would become.

Anders does not remember much after that.

In the end, of course, he had found Kirkwall – where oppression was ingrained into the very rock of the city. Justice had railed at the sight of chains, cried out for vengeance – and he had embodied it, become its very essence in ways that still terrified the mage. Anders had walked in as a man ready to change the world.

He glances down at the sheets of vellum. _Could words change the world?_


	5. V: The Brains

_“I've tried everything, but I can't get the mirror to do anything. It doesn't even reflect. That's probably bad.”_

Merrill stares hungrily at the mirror. All the knowledge of the elders could not bring back Tamlen and his friend from the unknowing beyond. It feels like a lifetime ago – the peace and quiet of the Fereldan forests, broken only by her screams. More like a bad dream now, one that haunts her every waking moment.

When the clan had crossed the water, she had hoped to leave it all behind. She realises now how futile that idea had been. After all, she had brought the stupid thing with her! But she had desperately needed answers – still needs them now, perhaps more than ever. She needed the truth, validation that she has not wasted her life and her clan's trust for nothing. Reaching out for a moment, her fingertips a breath away from touching the surface -

She never quite manages it, though.

 

She had dared, just once, to bleed for the mirror – a small ceremonial knife against her arm and she had dared to press down harder, the slow trickle falling to tap softly on the floor. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ It seemed like a logical conclusion, after all. It had claimed lives, activated just the once – perhaps it was in response to a sacrifice. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Her eyes never left the dull surface of the mirror, willing it to awaken once more.

It had been fortune, it seemed, that Varric also tapped – on her front door, bringing her back from wherever that thought had come from, and the trickle stopped as she grabbed a cloth. His bright smile had been like a cool drink on a hot day, eyes carefully avoiding the slightly-damp sleeves and the faint metallic tang in the air, and she promised herself that blood would never satisfy the mirror. After all, she reasoned, it had taken two souls and still not stirred. What good would a trickle do?

 

Once upon a time, she thinks idly, she been a princess of sorts, chosen by Marethari to lead the clan after her passing. There had been a kinship there that had humbled her, the older woman sharing with her the secrets of the wilder side. Marethari had been kind and gracious, and in the end...

She had rebelled, choosing her own path, studying magicks that others forbade. She had been pushed out for her choices by the very family she had pledged to serve, her desire to understand and protect them being the one thing they did not seek from her. She had wanted the best, and they saw only the worst.

Now, alongside Hawke, she fought like the jockeying hordes that sought to kill them all in turn, just trying to make it through the day so that she could return to her work – the real work, the passion that continued to ostracise and isolate her. Her grip on the fabric of her cot tightens as her gaze hardens, her thoughts returning to the work at hand.

Something good must come of it, she swears. It simply has to.


	6. VI: The Watcher

Varric watches.

He is very good at watching, after all. Always was – even as children, Bartrand had called him out repeatedly for sitting on the sidelines. But every time, he had learned something and used it to his advantage. Keeping a weather eye on how things would turn out, in those childish games of commerce and honour, he had emerged the richer, always.

Now, however...

 

There was much to be gained from watching the players on this chessboard. Hawke, of course, was something to behold – a natural leader at times, and at others a shadow, walking through the city as an owner does through their estate. But their merry troupe were equally as fascinating, mirroring each other in strange ways and yet seeming nothing alike in equal measure. Few were as immovable as Aveline, and the strength that she had found in her marriage to Donnic was something Varric was sure only happened in the most fanciful tales. Everyone else, though isolated in their own ways, were connected by the most intricate thread of adventures and bonds forged in the strangest of days. He wonders how many more chesspieces there were, and if they had been united so tightly.

 

Varric had to admit, it was difficult to just stand by. Sure, he had poked and prodded them occasionally, kept them on their paths – nothing too game-shattering, just enough to ensure they did not make basic mistakes. But that had been for them – all for them. The game would demand more, and he would have to watch as everything unfolded. His stomach warned him that it would not get better, and he had to agree.

 

\--

 

His gut is always right.

It is an unremarkable evening of editing for Varric. _Hard in Hightown_ had sold well, but the sequel needed a lot of work to live up to the trashy example. A quiet evening, he thinks with an almost-contended sigh, relaxing back into his chair and swinging his feet up onto the table as he scours the sheets in his hands. He is definitely not prepared for visitors.

She comes in the night, silent and still, but for the tutting from her mouth at the sight of his feet propped up on the table.

“Sometimes I think you dwarves have no manners at all,” she drawls, and his skin crawls – as it always does in her presence. Still, he is not one to bow, even to such a... woman.

“Damn few,” he agrees, “though we have the courtesy to _knock_ before entering.”

“You are meddling with them.” Her back straightens a touch, and once more he is struck by her height – her presence fills the room like no other, not even Hawke. The shadows on the walls fight with each other, almost reminiscent of her truer form.

“Meddling with who?” He feigns ignorance, though he doubts she is fooled. He straightens in his chair, an uneasy smile on his lips. “If this is about that bet I made with Donnic...”

The candles flicker, and she does not look amused. Her mouth twists, all hard lines and menace, and he wonders just how she manages to stay looking so damned... _human_. It is not a thought that stays for long.

“You will not save them from the end,” she warns, “and trying to will only serve to damage what victory you might gain for yourself.”

“I didn't do anything... big,” he points out. “Just... enough. You wanted them all on the path, and -”

“You have been warned, storyteller. I will not aid you should you fall to your more... _ridiculous_ desires of heroism.” She relaxes slightly, and the shift once again envelopes the whole room. The smile that appears on her lips, however, sets him on edge all over again. “After all, heroes do not _tell_ the stories, do they? You and Bianca know that better than most.” With a sharp jerk of her head, Flemeth takes her leave, and the dwarf waits until she is at least three minutes gone before letting out the long breath he had been holding, his head resting against the back of his chair as his eyes close. _Stones_.

 

\--

 

The things she had told him, all that time ago... it had been a quiet night then, too. Appearing in his chambers late, she had told him such stories of what was to come, and of his part. How Hawke, that strange little Fereldan whelp, would become one of the driving forces behind a complex and intricate game that only she knew all the rules to. How their forces would gather and bolster, and how one of their number would fall so very far from grace. She had told him of this and he had thought himself hopeless, and now all he could do was watch as one of the greatest stories of their lifetime unfolded in his fingers.

But time had granted closeness, a connection to these individuals not easily forsaken. Their merry band was worth trying to save, and so he watched them all, trying to guess who would fall – and how to stop them. But they each had their weaknesses, and keeping them on the right path was difficult when you did not know which path was right.

 

Rivaini had become fast friends with him, their views often aligning. And once the whole Qunari thing had blown over – not much of a shock, he would proudly tell anyone who listened, to a man who had heard all the stories – she had more often than not come to him, drunk and bewildered by her new place in the world. Together they would drink the city dry, all for the slim chance of Isabela accepting that she was, contrary to her own beliefs, happy.

The Prince had been but a lost nugling when they had found him proud and promising in the Chantry doorway. Of course, he was still crippled with self-doubt, but the dwarf knew how to bring him out of it and back onto whatever whimsical subject passed for conversation that day.

The elf... now there was something special. A precious flower just coming to bloom, and she barely knew it herself. But her obsession was a worry, and he could barely stop himself from dragging her away from that mirror as often as he could. Her insistence on using dangerous magic was another worry – he had little experience with the stuff, but she reassured him she had it under control. Still, he kept a wary eye on her at all times – just in case.

The mage was something of a danger to himself, magic aside. His once-sunny disposition was seldom dragged from the darkness, and the dwarf could only guess at what thoughts lurked behind those dulled eyes. Varric wanted to be wrong, but in his gut he knew that Anders could very well tip the board somehow. His drive was a force to be reckoned with.

And Fenris... well, he was something worth observing; an elf struggling with the very idea of freedom, binding himself to Hawke to protect himself from the terrifying world that awaited a newly-released slave. It was a wise move, Varric knew. Not sound in the long run, but for now he was safe and onside, and that was the best for everyone. A lyrium-fuelled vengeance machine was the last thing you wanted as a wildcard in a game like this.

And in the midst of the maelstrom, Hawke kept going. Varric wondered how. It was a full-time job, being the centrepiece in a power-play for the world. He only hoped that it would be enough.

 

Time would tell, and Varric could only watch.


	7. VII: Endgame

Life was a complex and wondrous game, she considers for a moment – a game that never really ended for beings like her. She had seen kingdoms crumble and rise, royalty beheaded, nobility raised and peasants burned. She had seen the end of Ages and been part of the dawn of every Age since.

And, she thinks as she swoops through the mountain range, it never ceased to be horrendous amounts of _fun_.

 

\--

 

Hawke is the lynchpin, for now, and she surrounds her most precious piece with all the support the city has to offer freely – wherever it can be found. She has never been choosy about race – all of them are somewhat beneath her, after all – but it is a diverse crowd that the future Champion attracts.

The dwarf is a surprise, and she considers him for a long time. A natural-born storyteller, he would be the best to keep the fires burning long after the legend had left the city. Having found Hawke under his own steam, she deems him the most promising and pays him a visit once she has been liberated from the locket.

It is worth it to see him truly scared.

 

After that, she is content to stay out of sight, for the most part. There were other pieces to keep an eye on, after all. The Warden might have vanished from the civilized world, but she knew a little more than everyone else about where a person like that could be. The boy-king, Alistair, so much like his father – she watches his progress too, interested to see how he fares in his quest for knowledge. Yevena would be but the first test he might find – and she did not fancy her daughter’s chances, in truth. She would bear the loss as she had born the others, of course. And her own dear Morrigan, her most promising daughter, faded in and out of the world as she liked – it was interesting to observe how she had grown. It would become more interesting, of course, when the real troubles began.

 

The boy in the Hawke estate is of great interest to her. Useless in his present state, but she has a few ideas – none that she would put into practice just yet, of course. The board is still in the balance, and he would be a powerful tool. But she speaks to him often.

He tells his father, and she cannot help but laugh at the piteous man. Poor little Sandal, indeed! If only he knew the half of it.

 

The Qunari would continue to spread their apparent discord in their never-ending quest for the Qun – though she knew better than to assume they would follow any leads presented to them. The Rivain was lost already, their influence accepted with welcome arms by the tired people, and she held little interest in Antiva anymore. It would not be a hard loss to bear should it too fall under the Qun. Still, it was interesting to watch them swarm, their ideals clashing so violently with the rest of the board. There was honour there, but so few saw it that way.

 

And, of course, there are the Orlesian developments to consider. The Divine plays her part wonderfully, causing more than a little chaos in the usually-orderly courts. The Empress makes for quite a fun distraction, too. She is still unsure as to how best to deal with her, but for now she is content to watch as rebellions brew and mages conspire. All over the world, magic is coming alive once more and she can feel it all connecting somewhere in the middle. It will be powerful and glorious, and she can barely wait to see it.

 

Meanwhile, the Templars and the Enchanters rally at each other. Each side acts in secret – Orsino toys with resurrection, Meredith lusts after the idol – and neither gains much of an advantage. Both believe the high ground is theirs, naturally, and she has to wonder how short-sighted mortals truly were. Neither side could ever truly claim the victory, not with the losses that would come. Mortals… such brief lives, and all for nothing.

 

Flemeth enjoys these games, and even more so now that she can observe from such great heights. Raising Morrigan had been a necessity, but the freedom she was now afforded had been quite missed. Her pieces were almost all in play, and it would be a fascinating climax – she is certain of that much. Her wings cut through the air as she takes her leave of the Marches, heading west towards Orlais.

The time would soon be at hand, and she would not miss it for anything.

 

\--

 

Varric is brave enough, only once, to ask her who she is playing against.

 

Her laugh rings out for a long, long time.


End file.
